


Tey do Dovahkiin (Tale of the Dragonborn)

by TheAmethystRiddle



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmethystRiddle/pseuds/TheAmethystRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When her home is destroyed, the woman soon to be known as Dragonborn finds herself on a journey of epic proportions. Follows the main plot of the game and beyond. Updates Mondays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Helgen

**Author's Note:**

> All dialogue taken from the game belongs to Bethesda and was transcribed by me.

The jolt of the cart brings her to her senses, the wooden slats jabbing into her back and scraping against her bare arm. Someone has stripped her of her furs and knives and dressed her instead in rough cloth robes; she bristles at the invasion of her privacy but is grateful she has been given at least that much. She has more than once left unconscious bandits in nothing but a loincloth.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.” She looks up to see a blond Nord watching her with a somber expression. His hands are bound in the same way as hers and he wears the uniform of a Stormcloak soldier. She frowns and looks around blearily. Her hunter’s instincts are screaming at her to get out of this situation. Something is very wrong. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

“Cross the border? No, I live in Skyrim. I’m from Helgen,” she says, straightening. “I was out hunting, and…” but it is all a blur. She remembers tying her horse to a tree to stalk an elk, sneaking around behind the beast, and then a thundering of hooves…

“Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell. You there,” the other man says, looking to her. “You and me - we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the blond Nord says, settling back with an air of resignation.

Thief, she thinks, as her memories solidify. Horse thief. A thundering of hooves, and a dirty-faced Nord galloping by on her horse. She sprinting on his heels, until a skirmish between Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers startled the poor beast into rearing, dumping the Nord on top of her. She scrambling back to her feet, pushing the unconscious thief aside, only to be struck from behind by the pommel of a soldier’s sword. And now here, bound and ragged and riding to what will surely be her execution.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she mutters, pulling on the bonds around her wrists. They are too strong to break, too tight to slip out of. There are soldiers behind and soldiers ahead. No hope of escape in any direction. “I shouldn’t be here!” she shouts, rage boiling suddenly behind her eyes.

“Shut up back there!” the soldier at the head of the cart snaps.

They lapse into silence, she clenching her teeth to contain her anger. She has the burning desire to shout, to scream words in a language she cannot understand. There is nothing else she can do, no avenue of escape or release other than her words. She is used to the freedom of the forests, the cold, lonesome wind between the trees, not the heat of nervous bodies pressed together in this awful, splintering prison of a cart.

“And what’s wrong with him, huh?” the horse-thief asks, nodding toward the man at the back of the cart. He is gagged as well as bound, and though he cannot speak his glare burns through like a shout.

“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!” the blond Nord says, his face twisting into a snarl. She feels the hairs bristle on the back of her neck.

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion! But if they’ve captured you… Oh, gods, where are they taking us?”

For the first time she finds herself in agreement with the dirty Nord. Akatosh help them if they truly ride in the same cart as the man who committed the highest treason against the Empire. Murderer of Torygg, the High King of Skyrim, and figurehead of the Stormcloak rebellion, perhaps the greatest threat to the Empire’s stability in Skyrim since the War of Succession.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits,” the blond Nord says quietly.

“Sovngarde awaits for those who die gloriously in battle,” she snaps. “Not those who die like dogs at the chopping block.”

“No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening,” the horse thief says to himself, shaking his head and staring at his bound hands.

“Hey. What village are you from, horse-thief?” the blond Nord asks.

“Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

The man stares in silence for a moment, almost as if he has not heard, and then he slumps in defeat.

“Rorikstead. I’m - I’m from Rorikstead.”

The intermittent clatter of hooves on cobble becomes more frequent as the road evens out and a gate looms in front of them. She feels a jolt in the pit of her stomach. This is Helgen, her home. Not only will she be executed like rebel scum, she will do it in view of all her closest friends. She sends a quick prayer to Akatosh that her mother and brother do not see.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" calls a soldier standing above the gate. A man out of her sight at the head of the procession calls back.

"Good. Let’s get this over with."

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me," the horse thief says in a frantic tone.

"I doubt they'll have much patience to help a man who rattles off their names like a list of things to be bought at the market," she snaps, startling him into silence. As soon as she has spoken she regrets it. The man is simply scared, as she is. He is going to his death. "I am sorry," she says, hoping to ease the pain on his face. "I am so sorry."

The horses snort and whinny as they pass under the shadow of the gate and she ducks her head, hoping she will not be seen. Perhaps she can at least avoid disgracing her family with her presence in this shameful procession. The blond Nord looks around him as they enter, clearly unafraid of showing his face to the entire town.

“Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” She looks up long enough to see where the blond Nord is indicating with a jerk of his head. A balding man sits astride a horse some ways away, talking with a high elf in long robes. Her lip curls. Even the staunchest supporter of the Empire is suspicious of the Thalmor.

“This is Helgen,” the blond Nord says suddenly, his eyes widening. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.”

“He is,” she says, and the blond Nord gives a smile that is almost a grimace. It is good mead, fresh and crisp and good with the elk meat she often brings home. She will never taste it again.

“Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.” The blond Nord looks down at his hands with a sad frown. She settles back in her seat, watching him and the horse thief. Both seem resigned to their fate.

“Who are they, Daddy? Where are they going?” She ducks her head, hoping not to be seen. The voice belongs to Haming, a young boy she often brought home antlers and bits of tanned hide to play with. He is a good boy, growing up strong like his father, and she’d hoped to teach him to hunt some day. She supposes now her brother will have to do it.

“You need to go inside, little cub,” comes the voice of Torolf, Haming’s father. There is a note in his voice that makes her think her prayers to go unnoticed have been in vain. At the very least let them not think she is a Stormcloak.

“Why? I want to watch the soldiers,” comes Haming’s voice again.

“Inside the house. Now,” Torolf says as the carts pass by the house.

“Yes, Papa.”

The carts come to a stop at the wall by the midtown gate, the soldiers clucking to the horses and pulling at the reins.

“Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!” calls a woman waiting by the chopping block set up in the middle of the street.

“Why are we stopping?” asks the horse thief, and she cannot help but roll her eyes.

“Why do you think? End of the line,” snaps the blond Nord, clearly equally as fed up with the thief as she is. “Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.” He rises, his shoulders held high and his mouth set in a determined line. She finds herself with a newfound respect for him, even if he is a Stormcloak.

“No, wait! We’re not rebels!” the horse thief shouts as they shuffle to the back of the cart, trying to get the attention of the two soldiers waiting for them.

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” the blond Nord says, and she nods in agreement.

“You’ve got to tell them! We weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time.” The woman speaking has the official insignia of an Imperial captain and a commanding tone that lends weight to that marking.

“Empire loves their damn lists,” the blond Nord mutters.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.” The gagged man steps forward, his very gait showing his disdain for the entire proceeding.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!” says the blond Nord.

“Ralof of Riverwood.” The blond Nord steps forward, and unless she is imagining it she thinks she sees the man with the list wince. She wouldn’t be surprised if they know each other, she thinks. The war has separated brothers in both blood and bond.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.” The horse thief steps forward now, then suddenly breaks into a run.

“No, I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!”

“Halt!” the Imperial captain yells.

“You’re not going to kill me!” he shouts as he runs.

“Archers!”

Lokir cannot run very quickly with his hands bound, but he makes an impressive distance before an archer’s arrow strikes him down and sends him skidding across the ground.

“Anyone else feel like running?” she snaps, looking around at the waiting Nords.

“Wait. You there. Step forward. Who are you?” the man holding the list asks.

“I am Ahnjord Elksblood of Helgen.” At her voice many of the townspeople step forward to stare, muttering to each other. To her relief the looks she receives are more worried than condemning, though she doubts they will do much good either way. She draws herself up to her full height, shaking her dark hair out of her eyes and clenching her broad jaw. Though the man in front of her is a good six feet tall, she is tall enough to meet his gaze straight on, her green eyes holding his brown ones until he looks down and away, carefully avoiding the three long scars that pucker her cheek. They are fresh and pink, the mark of a rough encounter with a cave bear from only two months ago. She squares her broad shoulders defiantly and stares him down.

“You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman,” he says, shaking his head. “Captain. What should we do? She’s not on the list.”

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.”

A ripple of angry muttering runs through the crowd, and Vilod himself steps forward with a complaint before a soldier pushes him back.

“She’s done nothing wrong!” he says from around the soldier’s outstretched arm.

“She was just out hunting!” says Torolf, stepping up behind Vilod. A glare from the woman in the captain’s uniform silences them both.

“By your orders, Captain,” the man says, and then he turns back to Ahnjord. “I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here, in your homeland. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

Ahnjord trudges along behind the captain, still pulling absently at her bonds. She entertains several wild ideas of escape; perhaps if she runs fast enough or steals one of the horses she can get away. The crowd of townspeople will surely shelter her if she runs to them, but she cannot risk their lives like that. There is nothing to do but accept it, like Ralof did and like Lokir could not do. Or perhaps Ralof, too, is kept alive only by his hopes of a miraculous rescue.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” Tullius’s voice snaps her out of her reverie and she comes to an abrupt halt at the edge of the group of Stormcloak soldiers. There is no escape. She will watch these people die and then she will die herself, and no Sovngarde will await for her. Just the senseless void.

Ulfric Stormcloak grunts, his nose wrinkling into a snarl.

“You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”

A strange noise suddenly pierces through the air, and though it is muffled by distance Ahnjord feels the hairs bristle on the back of her neck. It sounds like a cave bear roaring a warning.

“What was that?” the Imperial with the list asks, looking up and around.

“It’s nothing. Carry on.” Tullius steps away from Ulfric Stormcloak and goes to stand with the group of soldiers behind the block.

“Yes, General Tullius,” replies the Imperial captain. “Give them their last rites.”

A priestess steps forward, raising her arms in praise to the gods.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight Divines upon you…” she begins, and an unseen ripple of anger runs through the crowd of Stormcloaks. Even Ahnjord clenches her teeth; to deny these soldiers their god even in death - to insist in their last rights that the Nine are Eight - that is too much of an affront.

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with,” says a red-headed man, stepping forward to the block.

“As you wish,” the priestess says, stepping back and looking rather shocked. Ahnjord, too, is startled by the man’s brazenness. The Stormcloaks are dumber - or perhaps braver - than she thought.

“Come on, I haven’t got all morning!” he snaps as the captain steps up behind him and puts a hand to his back. As she puts a foot on his back and pushes him down to the block, he turns and sneers at the Imperials watching. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The executioner raises his curved axe above his head and then brings it down with a swish and a sick thunk of metal separating flesh. Blood spurts from the wound as the head falls in the basket at the base of the block.

“You Imperial bastards!” shouts one soldier.

“Justice!” Vilod shouts back.

“Death to the Stormcloaks!” another woman - perhaps Ingrid, Ahnjord thinks, though she cannot see well enough to be sure - adds.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof says, bowing his head in respect for the dead. She hears several soldiers mutter prayers to Talos.

“Next, the Nord in the rags!” the captain says, waving toward Ahnjord.

The awful roar comes again, sending a shiver down her spine. Like the roar of an animal looking for something to kill, she thinks.

“There it is again. Did you hear that?” says the man with the list.

“I said, next prisoner!” snaps the captain.

“To the block, prisoner, nice and easy.” The man sounds almost apologetic as he nods toward the execution block.

She steps forward as slowly as she can, her mind racing for some out. She has been casually pondering escape since she awoke, but it has come down to the last possible moment now. Would it be cowardice to run like Lokir any more than it would be stupidity to go willingly to her death like the Stormcloak soldier? Should she fight? Run? Pray? Should she hope in vain there is a place in Sovngarde for those who die on their knees?

But she is already at the block and it is too late. The captain pushes her down over the body of the dead man, presses her face into the stench of his severed head still lying in the box, and then steps back for the executioner. The man’s eyes stare blankly at her through his black mask. She wonders how he lives with himself, how he eats his dinner knowing he will never drink enough mead to equal the blood he has spilled. She wonders how she will live with herself, then remembers suddenly that she will not. Her life will end here and now, and that will be that.

Then out of the sky swoops a great black shape, craggy and winged and red-eyed. A dragon, she thinks wildly, though that is impossible.

“What in Oblivion is that?” shouts Tullius.

“Sentries! What do you see?” says the captain, and Ahnjord feels a fleeting moment of exasperation. Why ask the sentries when she can see it for herself? The headsman blocks her view as he raises his axe, oblivious to the beast behind him.

“It’s in the clouds!” shouts an archer, though the dragon is perched now on the top of the tower before them, opening its great mouth as if to swallow the world whole.

“Dragon!” yells a Stormcloak. Yes, someone has had the same impossible idea as she has.

The dragon lets out a blast of air and sound, a roar that almost sounds like words spoken in a guttural language, sending the headsman stumbling as the skies twist into swirling dark clouds and flying debris. Ahnjord is winded by the force of the roar, stuck with her cheek still pressed to the block as her head spins and her breath is forced from her body.

The town erupts into chaos, soldiers on both sides diving for cover or for weapons to defend themselves.

“Guards, get the townspeople to safety!” Tullius shouts at the soldiers, and though Ahnjord cannot see him she can hear the note of panic in his voice.

“Hey, kinsman! Get up! Come on, the gods won’t give us another chance! This way!” Ralof crouches in front of her, waving her over to him. She climbs to her feet with some difficulty, following him into the shelter of a keep tower. The ground around them is littered with rocks and bodies, and she is forced to step over the prone form of an Imperial soldier to get to the doorway.

“Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?” Ralof asks of the man standing just inside the door. Ahnjord recognizes him as the man who was gagged before, though he is now free of both his gag and his binds. Ralof, too, has found a way to untie his wrists. Ahnjord wonders briefly why no one has offered to untie hers.

“Legends don’t burn down villages. We need to move, now!” Ulfric says, though several of the soldiers with them are wounded and look as though they will not be able to move anywhere any time soon.

“Up through the tower, let’s go! This way, friend!” Ralof says, heading up the stairs. She follows, her bound hands impeding her movement some. A Stormcloak kneels at the landing, straining to lift a boulder that blocks the stairs.

“We just need to move some of these rocks out of the way,” he says, but before they can step forward to help the wall of the tower bursts inward and the dragon sticks his snout through the wall, covering the man with chunks of stone.

“Yol… Toor Shul!” the dragon roars, and a gout of flame jets from his mouth. The words - and this time she is sure they are words - make Ahnjord’s ears ring and the heat of the flame sears her face. She blinks against the blast of hot air, looking to the scorched rock as the dragon pulls away and flies away toward the rest of the town. She looks back at Ralof, who is standing shocked behind her, and shakes her head. There is no chance the man they saw is still alive.

She can hear frantic shouts and more roars through the hole in the wall, and can see below her the torn-out roof of the inn. A fire burns in the corner of a room and broken beams and planks lay in piles topped by rocks. In the streets Imperial soldiers aim bows at the skies and townspeople scramble from one burning pile of rubble to the next.

“See the inn on the other side?” Ralof says, stepping up to her and pointing through the wall. “Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We’ll follow when we can!”

The jump is significant, more than she would attempt under other circumstances, but she has no choice now. It is jump or more than likely die here in this tower, either by the dragon’s doing or by the Imperials’ after. She takes a deep breath and then a running head start, leaping from the tower in one powerful motion. For a moment she thinks she will crash into the jagged edge of the thatch roof, but then she is clear of it and landing on her feet with a pained grunt. It is farther than she should have jumped, and she stumbles a little as pain lances through her ankles. She has just barely missed landing in a smoldering pile of broken boards.

She heads through the inn, taking another leap through a hole in the floor down to the ground below and then slipping out through a hole in the wall. Outside Gunnar crouches behind the wreckage of a house, watching as the Imperial from before stands with his arms outstretched.

“Haming! You need to get over here. Now!” Ahnjord looks past the soldier to see Haming, his face streaked with tears, kneeling next to the Torolf’s body. Her stomach drops. “That a boy, you’re doing great,” the soldier says as Haming stumbles towards them.

The dragon wings down from above and opens his mouth, shouting out the guttural words from before. Another jet of flame comes from his mouth, engulfing Torolf completely as Haming dives for cover.

“Torolf!” the Imperial soldier shouts, retreating from the flame. “Gods, everyone get back!” He pushes Haming behind him, backing up toward Gunnar and Ahnjord. As the dragon flies off Hadvar sees her and gives her a nod of acknowledgement. “Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

“I have a name!” she shouts over the roars of both the fires and the dragon.

“Later!” he shouts back. “Gunnar, take care of the boy! I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!”

“Gods guide you, Hadvar,” Gunnar says. “And you, Ahnjord.”

They head out at a jog, around the burning pile of debris and past Torolf’s body. Ahnjord sends up a quick prayer to Akatosh for his soul and for Haming’s health. It cannot be good for a child to see his father die like that.

They run past a keep tower and around to the back of a house, watching the skies for the dragon’s return.

“Stay close to the wall!” Hadvar calls back as he jumps down from a burned and broken walkway. Suddenly the dragon slams down on the wall above him, his clawed wings clutching the wall tightly, and shouts his fire-words again. She and Hadvar both drop to a crouch. It doesn’t seem to have noticed them as it springs up from the wall and flies away. “Quickly, follow me!” Hadvar says, and stands.

They run through the wreckage of a burned-out house, perhaps hers or Thonr’s, she thinks. The placement is right. She is looking up, for the dragon and for the man named Hadvar, and so she doesn’t see the burned body until she trips over it, flakes of ash rubbing off on her shins and stomach. The body is big, over six feet, with the ashes of a bow by the fingers. On the chest is a glob of melted metal. A bow and a dagger at the chest, she thinks. She touches the metal, then pulls her finger away with a sharp hiss. It is still hot. She scrambles off of the body, smearing her knees with char and blood. In the corner is one body knelt over another, and though the back is burned beyond recognition she can see underneath the faces of her mother and brother. Both are dead.

She vomits, her empty stomach clenching and churning as she coughs up bile. Dead. Jormund, her younger brother, burned alive as he tried to protect their mother. And Thonr dead with them, his bow and the knife she gave him destroyed. She crawls to the body and tries to pry the knife off of his chest, but the metal burns her fingers and she pulls them away, shaking.

“Come on!” Hadvar says, pulling her to her feet.

“Jormund - Mama - Thonr…! I can’t leave them!”

“They’re dead, kinsman! There’s nothing you can do!” He drags her away until she gets her feet under her and follows him, tears streaming down her face.

Soldiers yell and scream around them as they run, and she sees Vilod laying on the ground, bleeding from his chest.

“Tell my family I fought bravely,” she hears him say as a soldier pulls one of Vilod’s arms over his shoulder.

“Come on, give me your hand,” the soldier says. “I’m getting you out of here.” He struggles to lift Vilod as Tullius waves passing soldiers on.

“Into the keep, soldier! We’re leaving!” he yells, and Hadvar turns that way immediately.

“It’s you and me, prisoner! Stay close!” he shouts back at her.

They head under the bridge towards the keep, Ahnjord keeping up with Hadvar with some difficulty. The dragon swoops above them and she looks up, only to see an Imperial soldier falling screaming from the sky. She nearly collides with Hadvar, who has stopped suddenly.

“Ralof! You damned traitor! Out of my way!” Hadvar says. Ralof, the blond Nord from the carriage ride, stands before them holding an axe.

“We’re escaping, Hadvar! You’re not stopping us this time.”

“Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” he says, and Ahnjord wonders at how like a child he sounds. There is no doubt these two have known each other since a young age, if they speak like that to each other.

“You! Come on! Into the keep!” Ralof shouts, running past Hadvar towards a door into the keep.

“With me prisoner! Let’s go!” Hadvar shouts, heading to a door up ahead.

Ahnjord stands for a moment, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two men. Despite her Nord heritage she does not trust Stormcloaks, and even less now that she has seen the way they have acted in this emergency - running and hiding like cowards, protecting themselves with no thought for the people of her village. Not like the Imperials, who even now help her people to safety. She runs after Hadvar, heading through the door he holds open and into the keep.


	2. Unbound

“Looks like we’re the only ones that made it,” Hadvar says, breathing heavily. “Was that really a dragon? Bringers of the end times?”

“Nah, I think maybe it was just a cave bear,” Ahnjord says, bending over to lean her elbows on her knees and take deep breaths. Hadvar lets out a barking laugh.

“Ahnjord, right?” he says, reaching out a hand as if to shake hers, then realizing she is still bound. “Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.” He fumbles with the knot for a moment and then finally just pulls out a knife and cuts the leather binds. “There you go. Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from. I’m going to see if I can find something for these burns.”

Ahnjord rifles through several of the chests, finding a full set of leather Imperial armor and an Imperial-issue sword. She turns her back to Hadvar and quickly strips out of her ragged clothes, leaving them on the floor in a heap. They are smeared with blood and ash and they smell of death, and she has no desire to keep them.

“Those people, in that house,” Hadvar says, making her jump. She looks over her shoulder and sees he has his back to her,  pointedly looking away as she changes. “They were your family?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

She shrugs, though he cannot see her. “There is nothing to be done,” she says, for his benefit. “They are dead, I am alive. I move on.” She clenches her teeth. She is on the verge of vomiting again, shaking and trying not to scream. Her grief is overpowering, but she knows her words are true. There is nothing to be done. She must move on. “Did you find anything for your burns?” she asks when she is dressed, turning to him.

“Ah, no. I’ll be alright.”

“Come here.”

He offers his hands, which are reddened and blistered with burns, and she takes them gently. She breathes for a moment and then whispers a few words. Healing magic swirls around his fingers, the golden sparks lighting on his wounds and healing them. It is weak, but it is enough. Hadvar pulls his hands away and marvels at them.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods and picks up her sword, giving it a few experimental swings and tapping it against her palm. It is nothing like her skinning knives, and it feels wrong in her hand, but it will have to do.

“Ready,” she says, her words half drowned out by another roar from overhead.

“Let’s keep moving. That thing is still out there.” Hadvar pulls on a chain and the gate at the back of the room slides down, opening up a passageway further into the keep. “Come on, this way.”

They head down a short passage and to the right, only to find another gate. As Hadvar goes to open it, voices come from the other side.

“We need to get moving!” a man’s voice says. “That dragon is tearing up the whole keep!”

“Just give me a minute… I’m out of breath…” a woman replies.

Hadvar steps back, away from the gate, and moves close to Ahnjord to whisper to her.

“Hear that? Stormcloaks. Maybe we can reason with them.”

Before Ahnjord has the chance to say that she has no desire whatsoever to reason with the trash that brought this whole mess upon them, Hadvar has opened the gate and gone through, his hands raised placatingly.

“Hold on, now. We only want to…” but the Stormcloaks have already drawn their weapons and charged at him.

The male sees Ahnjord and heads for her, his greatsword raised. She draws her sword and moves to him in two quick steps, impaling him on her blade before he can launch an attack. To her surprise, killing a human feels no different than taking down an elk. The flesh is the same, the clothes resisting her like a hide, and the guilty twinge in her stomach is no worse than when she takes an animal’s life. She wonders if this numbness is the grief or if she is simply a killer at heart.

“Let me see if I can get that door open,” Hadvar says, and she realizes suddenly that she has been staring at the Stormcloak’s body on the ground, her blade still half-lodged in his chest. She picks up the man’s greatsword without thinking, the weight of it feeling better in her hands than the one-handed sword, though the balance still feels off.

The gate at the opposite side of the room clunks open, and Hadvar straightens proudly, holding up a key.

“Found it in the barracks,” he says, slipping it into a pouch at his belt. “Come on, let’s go.”

Through the gate is a long, curved staircase, the steps and walls covered with moss. At the bottom they turn a corner and find another passageway, the ceiling crumbling and raining dust. As they step forward the roof suddenly caves in, the rock crumbling and falling to block the passageway.

“Look out!” Hadvar shouts, pushing her back. “Damn, that dragon doesn’t give up easy.”

When the dust settles they can see a door on their left, and hear from it two frightened voices.

“What are you doing? We need to get out of Helgen! Now!” one man says over the sound of rustling and clunking.

“The Imperials have potions in here!” the other replies. “We’re going to need them.”

This time Hadvar does not bother with reasoning, just draws his sword, puts a finger to his lips, and then tears the door open, charging through with his weapon raised. Ahnjord is right behind him, and she heads for a Nord holding an oversized hammer while Hadvar lunges at the other. She swings the sword over her head, her movements slow, and is saved only by the fact that the Stormcloak’s movements are slower. Her sword lodges in the man’s shoulder and he screams, blood spurting from his neck. He drops the hammer as she pulls her sword out to slash at him again, cutting into his neck and dropping the sword as he falls. This time it is not like killing animals. Elk sometimes scream, but not in a voice that could speak. Elk do not squirm and moan as they die, until she picks up the hammer and crushes his head with one blow.

“I am sorry,” she whispers, and she sends up a quick prayer to Akatosh. The dragon god, she thinks, and tries not to laugh. Of all the Divines, she chooses Akatosh, who sent his brethren to destroy her home and her people. But he has always been her favorite, her patron god. She holds the hammer limp in her hands.

“An old storeroom,” Hadvar says, looking around. “See if you can find some potions. Might come in handy.”

She looks around. There is a healing potion sitting on a nearby table and another on a bookshelf. She gathers them quickly, slipping them into a pouch at her waist. Hadvar points at a barrel and she goes to it, pulling its contents - several healing potions and two restorative potions, one for stamina and one for magic - out and stuffing them into the pouch as well. She is surprised by how much the small pouch can carry, but decides not to think too hard about it.

“Done then?” Hadvar asks, and she nods. “This way.” He heads through yet another door taking them into an even darker, dirtier hallway. The floor is uneven and slopes away from them, forcing them to walk slowly.

“I didn’t know the keep went this deep,” Ahnjord says, looking around.

“Neither did I.”

“Isn’t this your keep? Shouldn’t you know?” She frowns at him.

“I’m with General Tullius’s guard, not the group stationed here. We’ve only been here a few days, since the ambush was set up.”

"That's why I don't recognize you, then," she says with a small nod. "I left a week ago on a hunting trip. I was heading back when all this -" she gestures with one arm at the hallway, at Hadvar, at everything in her sight - "happened."

“And that’s why you were caught?”

“That damned Lokir stole my horse. I was trying to get it back and we both wandered into the ambush.”

Hadvar nods and they both lapse into silence. It is a ways down the hallway before they come to a flight of stairs.

“The torture room,” Hadvar says, and Ahnjord looks down the stairs to see cages set against the wall. “Gods, I wish we didn’t need these… Hear that?” From within the room comes the sound of fighting, magic crackling and swords colliding. “Come on!”

They rush down the stairs to find two men in Imperial armor fighting a couple of Stormcloak soldiers. The older of the two men lets loose a bolt of lightning, knocking one of the Stormcloaks to the ground, and Ahnjord quickly runs in and finishes the man off, swinging her hammer at his head and sending him flying. The other three congregate on the Stormcloak woman, Hadvar finally taking her down with a blow from his sword.

“You fellows happened along just in time,” the older man says, brushing his hands off. “These boys seemed a bit upset at how I’ve been entertaining their comrades.”

“Don’t you even know what’s going on?” Hadvar snaps. “A dragon is attacking Helgen!”

“A dragon? Please.” The man’s voice is slimy and makes Ahnjord’s skin crawl, even more so when she looks around and sees the bodies in the cages. She rolls her shoulders uncomfortably and steps away from him as he continues. “Don’t make up nonsense. Although, come to think of it I did hear some odd noises coming from over there.” She cannot tell if he is being sarcastic or not.

“Come with us. We need to get out of here.” Hadvarheads for a hallway at the back of the room, but when neither of the men follow he turns back.

“You have no authority over me, boy,” the older man says, though his assistant is beginning to look uneasy.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said the keep is under attack!”

“Forget the old man,” the assistant says, stepping forward. “I’ll come with you.”

“Wait a second. Looks like there’s something in this cage.” Hadvar moves back to the center of the room and peers into a cage in which a body in a set of mage’s robes sits against the wall.

“Don’t bother with that. Lost the key ages ago. Poor fellow screamed for weeks.” Ahnjord wrinkles her nose into a snarl. There are lockpicks sitting right on the table nearby, yet the sick bastard still let the man starve to death. She hopes at least the man had sins to atone for, though the gods don’t have much of a record of saving the innocent and condemning the guilty.

“See if you can get it open with some picks,” Hadvar says, waving at the table. His expression says he has had the same thought as Ahnjord.

“Sure, take all my things. Please.” The torturer sneers at them.

Ahnjord very pointedly takes only one pick and opens the lock in one quick twist and turn. She is glad the lock was easy or she would have made a fool of herself for certain. She then places the pick back on the table, staring the man right in the eye as she does so. The man makes a face as though he has smelled something disgusting.

“Grab what you can and let’s go!” Hadvar says as he heads for the hallway.

Ahnjord strips the man in the cage quickly, folding the robes - though she will not use them, she will be able to sell them - and, when the torturer is no longer looking, takes his knapsack and slips them inside. Out of pure spite she takes the lockpicks too, and then, on a whim, a book sitting next to them. The Book of the Dragonborn, it says in neat font on the cover below the Imperial symbol. She wonders if perhaps that symbol once meant something else.

She hides the knapsack and sprints for the hallway before the torturer can notice, catching Hadvar’s eye and grinning at him. He tries and fails not to grin back and follows her out.

“There’s no way out that way, you know…” they hear the torturer say as they head down the hall.

On either side of the hall are prison cells, most empty of anything but a straw bed but some containing skeletons stripped clean by skeevers. They both grimace as they pass them, thinking of the way these people must have died. At the end of the narrow hallway is a turn and then another torture room, this one filled with cages hanging from the ceiling, most of them occupied by bodies in various stages of decay.

“I think he just likes killing them,” Ahnjord says, looking at Hadvar. He nods, while the torturer’s assistant just shrugs.

“He’s good at his job,” is all he says.

At the back of the second torture room is a wall with a large hole in it, through which a cold wind blows. On the other side is a passage of some sort, lit by coal-filled basins set on stilts. The passage is more dirt than path, and the walls bulge with natural rock covered in moss. It winds through the earth, less like a hall and more like a cave, until up ahead they can see a place where it widens.

“Where in Oblivion are we supposed to go?” a voice says. “Where’s the way out?”

“Just give me a moment!” someone replies as Hadvar and the torturer’s assistant charge into the cavern.

Five Stormcloaks look up as they run in, immediately drawing their weapons. Hadvar goes for one on a small bridge while Ahnjord and the torturer’s assistant head down several steps to an area in the middle of the curved pathway. Ahnjord backs one Stormcloak into a stream and delivers an uppercut blow with her hammer. However, as the head collides with the Stormcloak’s chin, the shaft splinters, leaving the hammer broken in half. The break weakens the blow and the Stormcloak is left stunned but not dead. Quickly, Ahnjord grabs his discarded two-handed axe and swings it into his neck. He gurgles and then goes silent.

An arrow whistling past her ear brings her attention back to the rest of the battle and the two surviving Stormcloaks, both archers crouching near the passageway opposite where she and the two men had entered. Hadvar charges one of them, knocking him down and stabbing him through the chest, while Ahnjord hops over the stream and sprints up a set of steps to run at the second one. The man raises his bow and readies an arrow, only to have Hadvar’s sword come crashing down on his wrist, severing his hand and snapping the arrow in half. Ahnjord takes a great leap and swings her axe over her head, embedding the blade in the man’s chest. He screams as the blade swings down and then falls silent, dead.

“Let’s see if we can find a way out,” Hadvar says, wiping his blade off on a Stormcloak’s uniform and sheathing it. He picks up the man’s longbow and slips it over his head, grabbing the quiver of arrows as well.

“I better stay back and see to the old man,” the torturer’s assistant says, waving at them from across the bridge. “Good luck, you two.”

Hadvar and Ahnjord both wave and then head to the back of the passage, where they find a raised bridge and a lever.

“Let’s see where this goes,” Hadvar says, and he pulls the lever with some difficulty, dropping the bridge. As they cross they hear another roar from above and a thundering of breaking rock. Ahnjord pushes Hadvar ahead of her as they dive for cover, both of them going flying onto the rock of a half-eroded platform on the other side. Behind them the passageway collapses and a chunk of rock lands on the bridge, shattering it to pieces.

“You alright?” Ahnjord asks, climbing to her feet and extending a hand to Hadvar. He nods as he takes it and stands as well.

“Damn it. No going back that way,” he says, looking back at the broken bridge and the pile of rubble beyond. “I guess we’re lucky that didn’t come down on top of us.”

“It almost did,” she replies.

“We’d better push on. I’m sure the others will find another way out.” He heads down the rough stairs to the dirt of a cave below, stepping across a stream that runs through the middle and heading down through an entrance to their left.

“Are you really sure?” she says, jogging after him, and nearly runs into him when he stops suddenly.

“No,” he says, turning back. “Ahnjord, I think we’re the only survivors.”

She laughs nervously as he starts walking again, down the center of the stream through the passage.

“I’m sure it’s not all that bad. I mean, there must be at least a few. We can’t - we can’t really be the only ones.”

“No, of course not…” Hadvar says, though he hardly sounds convinced. They arrive at a fork in the path, one side of which follows the stream flowing under low-hanging rocks they can’t possibly crawl under, and the other heading past an outcropping of rock on which sits a skeleton and a lamp burning low. Ahnjord shivers. “Hmm. That doesn’t go anywhere.” Hadvar bends to peer under the rock blocking off the path to the left. “I guess we’d better try this way.”

They head to the right, and Ahnjord begins to notice that the path is cluttered with spider webs. She doesn’t have any particular problem with spiders, but she can’t help but notice these webs are much bigger than those left by normal spiders. As they reach the top of a slope down, she and Hadvar both gasp. Ahead is a large cavern filled with spider webs and large egg sacs. Two spiders the size of dogs rustle around in the open floor in the center.

“Akatosh bless and guide us,” she breathes. She’s seen only one Frostbite spider in her life, and never a nest like this. Skeletons and desiccated bodies of humans and animals alike litter the floor.

“We’ve got no choice,” Hadvar says, swallowing and drawing his sword. She draws her axe and looks to him. He nods.

They charge together, Hadvar catching one spider in the eyes while Ahnjord flings the other into the air with a sweeping motion, chopping half the legs off and smashing it into a rock. They barely have time to celebrate their victory before two more spiders drop down, these the size of horses. The shift so they are back to back, the spiders on either side of them, and when the one in front of her opens its pincers Ahnjord jams her axe into its mouth, pulling it out and then whaling on the thing until it twitches and dies. Hadvar behind her seems to have done much the same thing, and he turns away from the large spider with a sigh.

“What next, giant snakes?” he asks, and shudders.

They leave the room as quickly as possible, heading down another slope and into a larger cave. They seem to have gone the long way around, as the stream they walked down before drops into a waterfall and continues through the cave past them. They cross a natural bridge and head a ways down the bank before Hadvar stops and drops into a crouch.

“Wait. There’s a bear up ahead,” he says, motioning as she creeps up next to him. “I’d rather not tangle with her right now. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step. Or if you’re feeling lucky, you can take this bow. Might take her by surprise.” He hands her the bow and arrows he took from the Stormcloak soldier.

On the one hand, she thinks, there is no real need to fight this bear. They can be past her and out of this cave without any trouble. On the other, can she truly call herself a hunter if she walks away from a kill like this?

But she is not a hunter anymore, she thinks. That was destroyed in the fire; she left it behind when she entered that keep. She left it all behind. But still - one last kill, one bear for Thonr’s sake. One last hunt in his memory.

She draws the bow and sneaks around to the side of the beast, which snuffles and snorts in its sleep. She aims one arrow behind its front leg straight through to its vitals, puncturing its lung. She waits for it to die, warning Hadvar away with a raised finger and a motion to move behind her, and then sneaks up to retrieve the arrow.

“Can you give me a moment to skin it?” she asks, holding the bow out for him to take back. He waves for her to keep it and nods.

“Just a moment, though, and then we’re getting out of here.”

She rifles through the knapsack she took from the torture room and finds a dagger in a sheath in one of the pockets. She straps it to her thigh and then tests the point on the tip of her finger. It is not particularly sharp, but it will have to do. She slits the hide expertly, cutting it away in a matter of a few minutes, and even scooping out the flesh inside the head and keeping the skull intact. She wraps the whole bloody bundle up and tucks it under her arm, wiping her fingers on the thankfully red cloth of her borrowed Imperial uniform.

“Ready?” Hadvar asks.

“Ready.”

They head further through the cave, stopping under a bright spot of light shining down through a hole up above them.

“We probably couldn’t,” he says, looking to her and then back up at the opening, and she shakes her head.

“Nah.”

They move on, down another slope where they find a basin full of coals lighting their way and, to their left the bright light of an exit.

“This looks like the way out!” Hadvar says, turning to grin at her. “I was starting to wonder if we’d ever make it.” They run for the exit to the cave together, heading out into the bright sunlight.

 


	3. Riverwood

They blink as they exit the cave, the bright sunlight hurting their eyes after so long in the dark. They have come out of the side of the mountain, the path sloping away and down into the woods. Even as they exit they hear the sound of beating wings behind them, and they dive under the cover of a rock as the crush of air beats down upon them.

“Wait!” Hadvar says with a finger to his lips, and they peer over the edge of the rocks as the great black dragon flies overhead and beyond a mountain in the distance. “Looks like he’s gone for good this time,” he says when the dragon is out of sight. “But I don’t think we should stick around to see if he comes back.”

“Better not,” she replies, standing and beginning to jog down the mountain.

“Closest town from here is Riverwood. My uncle’s the blacksmith there. I’m sure he’d help you out.” Hadvar jogs up beside her.

“Just follow this path?” she asks, and he nods.

“It’s probably best if we split up,” he says, and she turns her head to look at him and raise an eyebrow. “Good luck. I wouldn’t have made it without your help today.”

He takes off ahead of her, jogging just fast enough to pull away and run in front of her. She quickens her steps to catch up.

“Do you really think I’m just going to let you walk away after everything we’ve been through?” she asks, bumping him with her shoulder. He stumbles but grins. “Let’s get to Riverwood and then we’ll talk about going our separate ways.”

He nods and slows down so they are going at a more comfortable pace. Ahnjord glances behind her, looking over the mountain and back towards Helgen. A thin column of smoke rises above the mountaintop. She wonders if others can see it as well, or if there’s even anyone left to see it. She shakes her head to dispel these thoughts.

“Listen,” Hadvar says, bringing her attention back to their jog. “You should go to Solitude and join up with the Imperial Legion. We could really use someone like you. And if the rebels have themselves a dragon, General Tullius is the only one who can stop them.”

“I’m not much of a career soldier,” she says, and shrugs. “I’d much rather live a quiet life as a hunter.”

“Well, you’re damn good at fighting for someone who doesn’t want to do it.”

She shrugs again. She truly has no desire to be a soldier, but the killing aside she has not enjoyed herself so much as during this journey since her first hunt. And though she doubts the rebels had anything to do with the dragon attack, who else has the strength to fight such a beast but the empire? Perhaps she would do well to join them after all.

The ground beneath them changes from dirt path to cobblestone road, Hadvar turning past a fork in the road to head along a winding way down the mountain. At an overlook he stops and points to a great, vaulted structure atop the mountain across the valley.

“See that ruin up there? Bleak Falls Barrow. When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares.” He resumes jogging, shaking his head as he makes his way down the path, and she follows.

“Nightmares?”

“Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that sort of thing. I admit, I still don’t much like the look of it.”

She shudders, looking back up at the barrow that now seems eerie and foreboding. Draugr are just a legend, she thinks to herself, no more than that. Just a boy’s nightmare.

They round another sharp turn in the road, and down at the end of the next curve Ahnjord can see three stones, shaped like dull teeth and with perfectly round holes through them near the top. Each bears a carving that she cannot yet see clearly.

Hadvar stops near the platform they sit on, and Ahnjord has the chance to take a closer look at them. One bears a carving of a warrior, another a carving of a mage, and the third a carving of an assassin or thief.

“The Guardian Stones,” Hadvar says, gesturing. “Three of the ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim’s landscape.” When she looks back at him she finds him watching her expectantly. It takes her a moment to work out what he is waiting for.

She steps forward and places a hand on the Warrior Stone, watching as the hole in the stone begins to glow with a blue light while a pillar of similar light lances from the tip of the stone. The carvings around the top glow as well, all of which fades after a moment. She turns to Hadvar, who is grinning.

“Warrior, good! I knew you shouldn’t have been on that cart the minute I laid eyes on you.”

Words that might have sounded insincere from another man sound only proud and honest from Hadvar, and she grins back at him, glad of his approval. He waves for her to follow and they set off again down the mountain path.

As they pass a path heading up into the woods he looks back at her.

“Listen, as far as I’m concerned you’ve already earned your pardon. But until we get that confirmed by General Tullius, just stay clear of other Imperial soldiers and avoid any complications, all right?”

She nods.

Down the path a ways, as they head underneath an outcropping of rock, Ahnjord hears a snarl behind her. She turns, dropping the bear pelt and hefting her axe over her shoulder, and barely has time to block with the shaft as a wolf lunges at her. A grunt from Hadvar tells her he is fighting off a wolf of his own, and then a squeal tells her he has won. She throws her wolf back with a grunt and then brings her axe down as the animal is recovering, chopping off its head.

“Going to skin these, too?” Hadvar asks with a lopsided grin.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it...”

He laughs. “I suppose I brought that upon myself.”

She skins the two animals as he watches, folding their pelts neatly and tucking them up with the bear pelt. She stands and nods at Hadvar when she’s ready, and they set off again down the path.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me,” he says, smiling. “We’re almost to Riverwood.”

As they round another bend Ahnjord can see a little hamlet on the river, a peaceful little place with wooden buildings and a mill set on a small island in the middle of the river. As they get closer she can see a smithy and a sign for a general store and for an inn.

“Things look quiet enough here,” Hadvar says as they pass under an arch set in a small wall going around the parts of the town not against the river. “Come on, there’s my uncle.”

As they enter the village an old woman leans over the railing of her porch to yell at a young man walking by.

“A dragon! I saw a dragon!”

“What? What is it now, mother?”

“It was as big as the mountain and black as night! It flew right over the barrow!”

Hadvar and Ahnjord look at each other.

“Dragons, now, is it?” the young man asks as they head past to the smithy. “Please, mother.”

“Uncle Alvor! Hello!” Hadvar calls to the man at the forge.

“You’ll see! It was a dragon! It’ll kill us all and then you’ll believe me!” the old woman shouts as her son walks away, and Ahnjord suppresses a smile.

“Shor’s bones,” the man says, putting down his hammer and coming over to them with wide eyes. “What happened to you, boy?”

“Sh, Uncle, please. Keep your voice down. I’m fine. But we should go inside to talk.” He holds an arm out toward the door set a ways down the porch, but the man does not move.

“What’s going on? And who’s this?”

“She’s a friend. Saved my life, in fact. Come on, I’ll explain everything, but we need to go inside.”

Alvor sighs in a way that makes Ahnjord think Hadvar has been like this since he was a boy - insistent on ceremony and secrecy even for small matters, for his nightmares as well as his dragons.

“Okay, okay. Come inside, then. Sigrid will get you something to eat and you can tell me all about it.”

They follow Alvor into the house, Hadvar looking around them as though expecting spies to leap out of the bushes, but the only person watching them is the old woman from before, and Ahnjord doubts any secrets discovered by her would be believed.

“Sigrid! We have company!” Alvor calls as he enters, patting a child on the head when she comes up to greet him. Hadvar gives the girl a hug, and Ahnjord nods a greeting. She supposes this must be the man’s daughter.

“Hadvar!” A woman appears at the stairs going down to the basement floor, a smile on her face. “We’ve been so worried about you! Come, you two must be hungry. Sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.” She gestures toward two chairs at a table Alvor has already taken a seat in front of.

Hadvar and Ahnjord sit as the woman - Sigrid - brings plates with bread and cheese and cooked meat over to the table. Ahnjord waits for Hadvar to take a bite before digging in with gusto. She has not eaten in a day and a half and she has just realized how hungry that has made her.

“Now, then, boy. What’s the big mystery? What are you doing here, looking like you lost an argument with a cave bear?” Alvor asks as Sigrid puts more bread and cheese on Ahnjord’s plate. Ahnjord smiles through a mouthful of meat.

“I don’t know where to start,” Hadvar says, looking over at Ahnjord. “You know I was assigned to General Tullius’s guard. We were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked… by a dragon.”

“A dragon? That’s ridiculous. You aren’t drunk, are you boy?”

“Husband,” Sigrid says in a warning tone. “Let him tell his story.”

“Not much more to tell. This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion. I don’t know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt I’d have made it out myself if not for my friend here.”

Ahnjord swallows her mouthful of food as everyone in the house turns to look at her.

“Ahnjord,” she says by way of introduction. “Ahnjord Elksblood. I live - lived - in Helgen.” No need to tell them about her capture and near-execution. Hadvar seems to agree, as he gives her the slightest of nods.

“I need to get back to Solitude and let them know what’s happened. I thought you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay.”

“Of course!” Alvor says, nodding. “Any friend of Hadvar’s is a friend of mine. I’m glad to help however I can.”

They tuck into the food, Sigrid seemingly happy to keep bringing them meat and bread and cheese until they are full. When both Hadvar and Ahnjord have eaten their fill, Alvor shifts forward in his chair to look at her.

“Like I said, I’m glad to help in any way I can. But I need your help. We need your help. The Jarl needs to know if there’s a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless…”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” Ahnjord says.

“We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you’ll do that for me, I’ll be in your debt.”

“How do I get to Whiterun from here?” she asks.

“Cross the river and head north. You’ll see it, just past the falls. When you get to Whiterun, just keep going up. When you get to the top of the hill, you’re a Dragonsreach, the Jarl’s palace.”

Ahnjord nods.

“But don’t feel rushed. You two should both get some rest before you head out anywhere,” Sigrid says, giving Alvor a stern look.

“Yes, of course.”

“Hadvar! Did you really see a dragon? What did it look like? Did it have big teeth?” the child bursts out.

“Hush, child. Don’t pester your cousin.” Sigrid says.

“Well, I better get back to work.” Alvor pushes his chair back and stands up from the table. “You two make yourselves at home.”

They both nod, Hadvar standing from his seat to walk over to the girl.

“Yes, it had teeth as big as swords and its breath stank of a hundred dead men! It crawled right up to me and went raaaaagh!” he says, springing on her and tickling her. She giggles and squirms as Sigrid takes Hadvar’s seat at the table.

“We only have the two beds,” she says with a sigh. “But we can set you two up with some furs downstairs. Will you be sharing- ?”

“Ah, no. Well. No,” she stutters, flustered.

“I’ll put them next to each other,” Sigrid says with a wink, and Ahnjord sighs as she walks away.

“Everything alright?” Hadvar asks, walking up to her.

“Your aunt seems to think we’re - together somehow.”

“Ah. Well.” He gives her a look she doesn’t understand. “We’re not, I suppose.”

“No, I suppose not.” She narrows her eyes at him.

“Although, if I asked…” he says, moving to put an arm around her.

“Don’t bother.” She shoves him playfully, grinning a bit, and then lets him sweep her into a hug.

“When you join the Legion I’ll be your superior officer, and then I can order you to marry me.”

“If that’s your approach to women, boy, you’ve got a lot to learn,” she says, and she punches him on the shoulder.

“Now, I wouldn’t really do that,” he replies, grinning.

“The beds are ready,” Sigrid calls as she comes back up the stairs. “I know it’s early, but if you’re tired now feel free to head down. We won’t bother you.”

“I could use some rest,” Ahnjord says, heading for the stairs.

“I’ll stay up here for now,” Hadvar replies. “Talk to Uncle Alvor and Aunt Sigrid more for a while.”

“What about me?” the child asks, and Hadvar laughs.

“Yes, and Dorthe, too,” Ahnjord hears him say as she walks down the stairs.

There are two piles of furs in the corner of the basement, and Ahnjord drops her things, strips out of her armor, and crawls into one of the piles gratefully. She is exhausted and full, ready to sleep for days. The furs are soft and warm against the cold of Skyrim’s ever-present chill and they smell pleasantly musty. She soon slips into a deep sleep.

She wakes halfway when Hadvar climbs into the pile next to her and rolls over to lean into him. He wraps his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. They fall asleep like this, wrapped up in each other’s warmth.

When she awakes Hadvar has already risen, though he has left for her what is presumably a gift from Sigrid and Alvor: a clean tunic and a pair of breeches. She dresses in these and then, after some hesitation, puts her salvaged set of Imperial armor on as well, sans the red tunic covered in dry blood. She gathers her pelts and heads up the stairs.

Hadvar and Sigrid are sitting at the table talking, though when Ahnjord reaches the top of the stairs Sigrid stands and goes to the fire, where she ladles out a bowlful of stew. As Ahnjord sits Sigrid puts the bowl in front of her and hands her a spoon.

“Dig in. There’s plenty more where that came from. I’m just going to tidy up downstairs.”

Ahnjord does so enthusiastically, scooping stew into her mouth as Sigrid heads down the stairs.

“It’s nice to be back in a friendly spot, eh?” Hadvar says, leaning his elbows on the table. “Listen, I’m going to lay up here for a while. You can make your own way to Solitude from here. I’d recommend heading to Whiterun, just down the road from here. From there you can take a carriage to Solitude.

“I guess I have several reasons to head to Whiterun now,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ll head out after I sell some things. Is that a general store across the way?”

“Yeah. Riverwood Trader. The Valerius siblings run it.”

“I’ll clean those pelts and sell those, and I can sell those mage robes,” she says, almost to herself. “And some of these potions as well.”

“Here,” Hadvar says, digging into the pouch at his waist. “Some things I picked up in the keep.”

Onto the table he drops two daggers, a garnet, some lockpicks, and a magicka restorative.

“I can’t take these from you-”

“I want you to. You need them more than I do. You’re striking out on your own; all I need to do to find supplies is get to the nearest Imperial camp. You’ll need the money for better armor and for the carriage, not to mention food and lodging.”

After a moment in which he stares her down, she gives in and collects the objects on the table. He smiles.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling back.

“You’d better get going,” he says, standing and holding out a hand for her to shake. “I’m glad we met, Ahnjord Elksblood.”

She takes his hand and then pulls him into a hug. He grins and hugs her back, then pulls away looking a little flustered.

“Get out of here, soldier,” he says playfully, shoving her away.

“Aye, sir,” she replies with a grin.

The first thing she does when she leaves is she goes downstream and soaks the hides, cleaning them of any gore and dirt. The wolf hides she dries, folds, and tucks into her pack, while the bear hide she takes back to the smithy. With Alvor’s permission, she uses the smithy tanning supplies to treat the bear skin, rubbing tannins into the soft inside of the hide.

“Can you hold onto this for me?” she asks, indicating the hide marinating in the tanning mix. “I’ll be back for it in a week or two.”

Alvor nods, and she takes the hide back inside and tucks it into a corner of the basement before heading over to the Riverwood Trader. As she enters, she finds herself in the middle of an argument between what she assumes are the siblings who own the shop.

“Well, one of us has to do something!” a dark-haired woman says, stamping her foot.

“I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!” snaps the man behind the counter.

“Well what are you going to do then, huh? Let’s hear it!”

“We are done talking about this,” he says, and then, turning to the entrance, seems to notice Ahnjord for the first time. “Oh, a customer. Sorry you had to hear that. I don’t know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open. Feel free to shop.”

Ahnjord has sold off all of her extra things by the time she cannot bear the mystery anymore.

“Did something happen?” she asks.

“Yes, we did have a bit of a… break-in. But we still have plenty to sell. Robbers were only after one thing. An ornament, solid gold. In the shape of a dragon’s claw.” He fiddles with the tankard sitting on the counter in front of him as the woman goes over to the table on the other side of the room.

“I could help you get the claw back,” she says. It won’t be too difficult to go find some bandits before she heads into Whiterun, she thinks. And besides, the sister is very pretty.

“You could?” the man says, brightening. “I’ve got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It’s yours if you bring me claw back.”

“No problem.”

“So this is your plan, Lucan?” the woman says, crossing her arms.

“Yes. So now you don’t have to go, do you?”

“Oh really? Well I think your new helper here needs a guide.”

“Wh- no… I… Oh, by the Eight, fine. But only to the edge of town!”

The woman beams at him and stands, waving to Ahnjord to follow her out the door.

“We have to go through town and across the Bridge to get to Bleak Falls Barrow. You can see it from here, though. The mountain just over the buildings.” She points to the same huge structure Hadvar had pointed out the day before. “Those thieves must be mad, hiding out there. Those old crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else!”

“I hear it’s full of Draugr,” Ahnjord says, raising her eyebrows. The woman laughs. “Just legends, though, I suppose.”

“I wonder why they only stole Lucan’s golden claw,” the woman says as they pass the inn. “I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Lucan found the claw about a year after he opened the store. He never quite explained where he got it. He’s a tricky one.”

“He certainly seems like the tricky type.”

“He’s my brother, by the way. Not my husband. And I’m Camilla.” She smiles at Ahnjord, and Ahnjord smiles back.

“So I’ve heard.”

“This is the bridge out of town,” Camilla says as they arrive at the edge of the river. “The path up the mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow.”

Ahnjord looks up the path, which winds up the mountain into the snow.

“Looks easy enough,” she says with a nod.

“Good luck,” Camilla says, and then after a moment’s hesitation she stands on her tiptoes to kiss Ahnjord on the cheek. Ahnjord blushes and smiles. “I guess I should get back to my brother. He’ll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child…” She waves as she walks away. Ahnjord watches her until she is out of sight behind the town wall, then touches her cheek where Camilla had kissed her.

Emboldened, she heads up the path and around a bend, the road quickly turning to a rough dirt path broken up by rocks and scrub brush. Snow begins to fall as she makes her way up the mountainside, and through the falling flakes she can see a tower loom on the side of the mountain. She drops into a crouch. A bandit is standing outside the tower, leaning against a tree next to a lantern. Another bandit paces the bridge connecting the tower to the side of the cliff face. Perhaps these are the bandits Lucan Valerius was looking for, and they are not up at the barrow at all.

This is a job for the bow Hadvar gave her. She draws an arrow from the quiver and notches it, taking careful aim at the bandit leaning against the tree. One arrow fells him, the bandit on the bridge jumping with a shout and running to him. Another arrow takes down this man, and after a moment’s waiting she sees no more bandits come out of the tower.

The bandit now sprawled at the foot of the tree is wearing a nice set of iron armor, and after looking around her once she strips out of her Imperial garb and pulls the iron armor off of the man’s body. It is still warm, and she tries not to think of this any harder than she might think of wrapping an elk’s still-warm pelt around her shoulders. Once she has strapped on the boots and gauntlets as well, she collects what other loot she can find - some lockpicks, a fair number of arrows, and a few gold coins - and then heads into the tower.

Up the stairs and around an unsteady outside path, she finds another room with stairs going farther up. As she heads for these she hears a grunt and then feels the impact of a mace against her back. Only her new armor saves her from a broken bone, allowing her a brief chance to recover. She realizes belatedly that she is still holding her bow instead of her axe, so as the bandit raises his mace for another blow she notches an arrow and looses it into his throat. He falls, gurgling, and she draws her axe and slams it through his neck.

She skirts around the pool of blood and climbs up the stairs to a platform containing only a large wooden chest. This is it, she thinks with a triumphant grin. She has completed her mission.

To her dismay, inside the chest are only a handful of coins and a rusted sword. With a sigh, she heads back down the tower. As she passes the beheaded bandit she feels her skin crawl, as if a spirit is passing over her. She pauses, unsure, and then with a short sigh picks up the man’s head and places it at the top of his neck, where it belongs. Stepping carefully so as to keep blood off her boots, she folds his arms on his chest and straightens out his legs. Then she goes back down the tower and carries the two other dead men back up with her, the walkway straining with the effort of holding three bodies at once as she makes her laborious way up the slope. She lays them down next to their comrade and then kneels on a dry spot of the floor, saying a quick prayer to Akatosh and wishing that their souls be let into Sovngarde for their deaths in glorious battle. At the very least she can do this for the men and women she must kill. Her job done, she leaves the tower and heads up into the wind and snow of the mountain.

It looks like she will be going up to the barrow after all.


	4. Bleak Falls Barrow

The path up past the tower to the barrow is treacherous, the wind blowing snow down the mountainside as she makes her way past great stone structures, pieces of arches now falling into disrepair. Through the almost blinding snow she can see huge steps heading up onto a platform in front of the barrow and atop that the great arches she could see from across the valley.

She sees the three bandits up top at the same time they see her down below, and there is a moment of stillness where only the steadily worsening blizzard can be heard between them. Then one of the bandits charges, shouting an incomprehensible battle cry, and the rest of them spring into action.

Ahnjord heads for the charging bandit first, drawing her axe just in time to block an incoming overhead blow. He seems startled by her defensive tactic, and she takes the opportunity to push back against him, throwing him off balance. As he reels back she reaches the handle of her axe over his head and hooks it behind his neck, wrenching his head down and slamming his face into her knee. His neck snaps with a sharp crack and he drops to the ground, his nose bleeding sluggishly.

The sound of an arrow deflecting off her back turns her attention to a second bandit who is attempting to see well enough through the storm to aim properly. She ducks behind a pillar, peeking out to see the bandit cursing and moving closer. As he moves around one side, Ahnjord moves around the other, taking the final few steps in a lunge and embedding her axe in his spine. He collapses, twitching, as she whirls around to look for the other bandit.

She is nowhere to be found. Ahnjord fights the urge to collect the two bodies and put them somewhere wolves will not get to them, but she cannot afford to do that until she knows all the bandits are taken care of. She hopes the third has just run off and she will not have to kill her.

Ahnjord sees the arrow out of the corner of her eye and throws up her arm automatically. The arrow hits her gauntlet, the fur underside slowing it only enough that it does not chip the bone. She lets out a yell and is surprised by the sound of her own voice; she sounds like a wounded beast. She wrenches the tip of the arrow from her arm and runs in the direction it came from, only hoping she can get to the bandit before an arrow finds a more vital part of her flesh.

She sprints up the stairs, looking around for the bandit, but cannot see anything through the storm. She spends a full minute jogging around the pillars looking for her before an arrow strikes the stone next to her and she whirls to find the woman standing behind her, at the far end of the platform away from the entrance. As Ahnjord edges forward, the bandit steps back, keeping the distance between them too far for her to charge through.

As Ahnjord moves ever closer the woman takes another step back, misses the step, and falls backwards down the stairs behind her, her face frozen in an almost comical expression of dismay. Ahnjord rushes forward, skidding to a halt at the top of the steps, and looks down at the woman. She is dead.

Now Ahnjord goes about collecting the bodies, laying them all on the platform in a row and saying a quick prayer over them. There is little more she can do this far from a town and some way to bury them, and even less she can get done in the growing storm. She supposes in the end they will be eaten by wolves, but there is nothing reasonable to be done. Akatosh willing, their souls will at least have passed on to Sovngarde by that time.

She searches their pockets, finding a few coins and a lockpick or two as well as a couple daggers she straps to her thigh. That done, she heads finally into the barrow.

She edges through the door as quietly as possible, dropping into a crouch as she sees the fire up ahead. On the floor in front of her is a dead bandit and several dead skeevers, all of which she leaves untouched for fear of being heard. As she sneaks forward, she sees there are two bandits standing around the fire talking.

“- while Arvel runs off with that golden claw?” she hears one of them say as she gets closer.

“That dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him. Better than us risking our necks.”

“What if Arvel doesn’t come back? I want my share from that claw!”

Ahnjord hides behind a large column in the middle of the room and pulls out her bow, peeking out with an arrow notched.

“Just shut it and keep an eye out for trouble.”

As the man finishes his sentence, she steps out from behind the pillar and looses her arrow, striking him in the back of the neck. The woman jumps and draws her bow, aiming into the darkness even as Ahnjord sends another arrow flying into her chest.

She collects the bodies, even the one by the skeevers, and lays them next to the fire, arranging them as she did the other bodies and again searching their pockets. When her prayers are through, she looks around the camp. There are a couple of bed rolls, a fire with a spit, and a chest. She picks the lock on the chest to find a restorative potion, some gold, and a pair of iron gauntlets. Then she sits on one of the bed rolls and warms her feet while she tends to her still-aching arrow wound.

The blood has soaked through the fur and she hisses in pain as the partly dried blood pulls away from the skin. She picks a few hairs from the fur out of the cut and then pours a health potion over it. The potion stings her flesh and she yelps as the skin closes itself up, leaving only a small scar. She moves the arm experimentally and then, satisfied with the healing, puts one of the freshly found gauntlets on in place of her torn and bloody one.

She moves on, careful to keep her steps quiet, down a dark hallway threaded through with cobwebs. At the end is a basin full of coals lighting up the turn in the hall. The path heads to the right, the floor becoming increasingly rougher and covered in roots and rock debris. Down some stairs and around a bend she finds another basin of coals and a dead skeever. The path grows worse, weaving up and down and around almost as though it is a natural tunnel rather than a manmade thing.

Past several twists and turns of the tunnel she finally comes to a widening in the path. In a room ahead, a bandit stands with a torch held above a lever in the center of the floor. After a moment of apparent consideration, he pushes the lever away and then pulls it back with a clunk.

Immediately a barrage of darts shoots out from every imaginable crevice, striking the bandit from every direction. He turns and tries to run away from the lever, back towards Ahnjord, but after a few steps he falls, dead.

Ahnjord goes to the lever and looks it over, careful not to touch the body in case of any lingering poison. In front of and presumably connected to the lever is a large iron gate through which she can see a passage going deeper in. To the left are three pillars that, upon closer inspection, can be turned to face one of three ways. That must have been the piece the bandit was missing, she thinks. But which ways must they face?

She looks around the room, certain she will find her answer, and is quickly rewarded. Fallen just next to the lever is a great stone face with a gaping mouth and a snake symbol inside. When she looks up above she sees two more faces, both with symbols in their mouths. Snake, blank, fish. With the fallen head, it becomes snake, snake, fish. She turns the pillars with some difficulty so that they face the right direction, and then goes back to the lever. Hopefully her thought process is correct, she thinks, but at least the worst that can happen is a slow death by poison. She shudders at the thought and then, with a deep breath, pushes back the lever.

The gate opens with a creaking and shuddering and Ahnjord sighs in relief. It wasn’t a particularly hard puzzle, but with her life on the line she had reason to doubt.

Through the gate and to the left she finds a wooden spiral staircase that creaks and moans as she steps on it. Squeaking and skittering is her only warning as three large skeevers come running up the stairs. She panics, flailing with her axe and sending them flying. She chops at them frantically until all three are very dead, and then wipes the blade of her axe off with a piece of tattered linen she finds on a table nearby. Shaking, she leans against the table and takes deep breaths. Now that they are dead it is no matter.

She kicks the bodies to the side before heading down the stairs once again, the boards creaking beneath her weight. At the bottom she finds another room, this one dank and filled with cobwebs. On the table is a vial of poison, which she knows how to use, and a strange scroll that hums with energy, which she does not. She is unrolling it when she hears a voice coming from farther in.

“Is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?”

The floor ahead of her slopes down to a cave-in filled with spider webs, and she looks around for a moment before realizing there is a door next to her, the frame filled with so many cobwebs she must pull out one of her daggers to slash it away, the strands sticking to the blade and her fingers. She is looking back down at the scroll as she enters, and so does not see the spider until the voice yells again.

“Don’t let it get me! Help!”

Her head jerks up and her hand shoots out, and before she has the chance to register the sight of the gigantic Frostbite Spider a ball of flame has shot from her palm to strike it dead in the face. The spider’s body skids back as the dark elf she can now see is trapped in the webbing at the other end of the room screams and kicks in a frantic attempt to get away. The scroll turns to dust in her hand.

Ahnjord grabs the spider by a leg and drags it across the room, shaking her head. She doesn’t understand the fear even grown men have of these spiders. They are unnerving, to be sure, but not so frightening as to make her weep and gasp in the way the elf now does.

“You! Over here!” he says as he recovers. She walks back to him, dusting herself off with one hand. “You did it. You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up!”

“Where’s the golden claw?” she asks, whipping a severed spider leg out from behind her back and wiggling it in his face. He begins to panic again.

“Yes, the claw, I know how it works! The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories! I know how they all fit together! Help me down and I’ll show you. You won’t believe the power the Nords have hidden there.”

She considers him for a moment and then tosses the leg aside.

“Fine. Let me see if I can cut you down.”

“Sweet breath of Arkay, thank you.”

Carefully, dagger in hand, she cuts away at the sticky strands of webbing. The man, who she assumes is Arvel, the elf the bandits at the entrance mentioned, squirms and pulls on the web as she cuts it, making her job harder rather than easier.

“It’s coming loose, I can feel it!” he says, still squirming.

“Hold still,” she snaps, and he freezes.

With a final cut the remainder of the webbing breaks, dropping him on his hands and knees. He climbs to his feet, brushes himself off, and then turns and breaks into a run.

“You fool,” he says, looking back, “why should I share the treasure with anyone?”

She takes off after him, pelting past the webbing, down a twisting hallway, through a room filled with urns and a soul gem she barely catches out of the corner of her eye, across the uneven ground of another room, and then down an incline into a room split in half by a row of huge columns in the center. Arvel dodges a column and pulls ahead of her, rushing to the next room, but as he steps on a strange round seal in the floor a steel latticework of spikes slams around, flinging his body to the side.

She stops, shocked, but does not have much time to react, as suddenly all around her there is groaning and clinking of armor. In front of her, rising from its resting place in a burial notch in the wall, is a strange, gray being, its flesh sinewy and dessicated from many years laying dead in this tomb. She has never seen anything like it, but she knows at once what it is: a draugr, the once-human creatures that according to legend haunt every one of the ancient crypts that dot Skyrim’s landscape.

She is still holding only the dagger she used to cut Arvel down, so despite her revulsion she grabs the draugr in front of her by the head and stabs it repeatedly in the eye. When she feels it go limp in her grip she drops it and the dagger, draws her axe, and whirls around to face the rest of her attackers.

Two more draugr charge her, their weapons raised. As the one on her left swings its arm back for a blow she sweeps her axe under it, cutting down its legs, and then slams her blade into its neck. The draugr now on her right swings its sword down, catching her on the helm and making her ears ring. She staggers, dropping her axe, but as the draugr raises its sword again for a finishing blow she grabs it by the wrist and wrenches its arm off. It growls, raising the stump of its arm almost indignantly and then turns to her, its eyes filled with a strange blue light. She draws her second dagger and stabs it in the neck, ripping the blade through the tendons and leaving the head hanging by only the spine. The draugr collapses, finally still.

She collects her discarded weapons from the bodies of the draugr and then goes to Arvel. He is practically torn to shreds, the spikes of the trap having pierced his entire body. She digs through the bloody clothes, picking apart the cloth until she finds a pouch at his side. Inside the pouch is the golden claw - finally! she thinks in triumph - and a journal filled with scribbled notes. She slips them both into her pack and then continues deeper.

She edges past the trap, now careful to keep her footsteps quiet, and then climbs over some debris in the path. Up ahead she sees another draugr in its notch in the wall, and she decides it is best to take care of it before it becomes a problem.

Drawing her bow, she inches forward a few more steps and then notches another arrow. With a deep breath she aims it right at the draugr’s neck and then shoots, the arrow flying home just as she aimed it. The draugr stirs, but before it can rise she lets fly another arrow, this one through its eye. It stills, and after a moment of waiting she moves on.

Down the stairs to her right is another room filled with sleeping draugr, and she peers at all the ones she can see, wondering which ones are truly dead and which are simply waiting to awake. As she creeps down the stairs one rises; she ducks behind a bulge in the wall and raises her axe. As the draugr shuffles past, she swings down, the blade cleaving it almost in two. This seems to wake the other draugr, as two more rise from their places of rest. The first she charges and beheads, almost colliding with the wall as she skids to a halt next to it. The next raises a bow that she knocks aside with the flat of her blade. She then jabs it in the center of the chest, knocking it back into the swinging blades of the hall behind it. The draugr is torn to pieces in seconds.

Now Ahnjord is faced with the difficulty of getting through the blades herself. She considers trying to sprint through but quickly decides that is a bad and unnecessarily dangerous idea. Instead she drops to her stomach and crawls through, the blades ruffling her hair as they pass only inches above her. On the other side is a chain hanging from the wall; she pulls it and finds that it stills the blades, just as she’d hoped.

Around a sharp turn and down more stairs - how deep can this possibly go, she thinks - she pulls up sharply. Ahead is another draugr, this one in a standing tomb, its arms crossed over its chest. As she shoots an arrow into its eye and watches it fall, she wonders if so many sneak attacks are cheap or wrong. But killing while her prey is unsuspecting, though unexciting, is certainly safer and quicker.

As she passes the body of the fallen draugr she sees down the length of the hall another one and wonders how many more there may be. She wishes now she had recovered her arrows from the previous bodies, as she is quickly running out. She pulls the arrow from the draugr in front of her and then considers her situation.

Ahead are likely many more draugr, which she will have to engage either from afar, with her dwindling stock of arrows, or in melee, with the high risk of injury involved with such. Unless - she inches forward, touching the wet ground in front of her to confirm her thoughts - there is oil on the ground and a flame burning in a fragile ceramic pot hanging above. If she can draw the attention of the draugr up ahead, she can take them out in one fell swoop.

She collects several rocks from the floor and then hides behind the curve of the passageway, sticking an arm out to chuck one of the rocks as hard as she can. She hears it collide with the far wall and then a quiet shuffling. She throws another, and another, until she hears at least three distinct groans of draugr waking up. The sound of shuffling grows louder, and she peers around the corner to see all three draugr coming closer. She drops the remainder of her rocks, draws her bow, and then steps out from behind the corner, loosing a quick arrow at the lantern and severing the old and fraying rope.

The flame crashes to the ground at the same time that the draugr see her, so that suddenly the three bodies are burning as they rush her. She backs up to the wall as all three collapse in a pile just inches from her feet, their flesh still crackling with flame.

The oil on the ground burns itself out fairly quickly, allowing her to move on through the twisting tunnels. Through several more turns in the path she finds a hole in the wall and a short stretch of what looks like natural cave. Past that is a wider tunnel that comes out into a room with a river flowing through the center. At the far end of the room is a standing coffin, which Anjord approaches warily. Suddenly the cover of the coffin pops off and a draugr steps out. Rather than bother with her bow, she simply draws her axe and charges across the bridge, catching the draugr in the chest and flinging it against the back of the coffin. It collapses, and she shakes her head. These draugr are rather fragile for supposed guardians of this tomb.

A chest sitting on a platform to her right is empty, although when she scrapes her fingers around the edges and into the corners she finds a fair bit of dust and a few small spiders. She shakes her fingers off and then washes them in the stream, as she does so looking around the room.

As far as she can see from a cursory glance, there is no way to move on from this room. The door on the other side is blocked by a cave-in with no chance of her being able to squeeze through. The stream on one side is a waterfall flowing down a craggy rock face that she doubts she’d be able to climb and on the other side is gated.

What a strange place to put a gate, she thinks. As soon as she looks closer she sees the chain to its right and pulls it and then watches the gate rise with a triumphant “ha!”

She picks her way through the stream, placing her feet carefully on each rock and trying not to get her feet wet. Though it is fairly warm inside the barrow, wet boots in Skyrim’s cold can mean frostbite in minutes, a fate she’d like to avoid. When the stream hits a pile of fallen rock and tangled vines, blocking Ahnjord’s passage, she turns right, onto a path that is certainly a part of a natural cave. She glances at a pair of candlesticks with candles burning atop them as she passes and shakes her head. How those candles have supposedly burned for hundreds or thousands of years is a mystery to her.

The path widens into a real cave, the stream flowing through the center of it, and she is reminded briefly of the cave beneath Helgen’s keep. There is no time to think of Helgen, she thinks to herself, shaking her head. Helgen can be dealt with when all this is over.

Caught up in her own thoughts, she does not see the skull until she trips over it, stumbling to catch herself on the wall of the cave. When she looks down she shudders. It is a troll skull, and she is infinitely glad that it is all that is left of such a monster. She doubts she could take down a troll at all, much less on her own.

Further in is an iron ore vein and a skeleton next to it. What poor fool would go mining so deep in this barrow? she thinks, shaking her head. Getting this far in is a miracle in and of itself; getting out seems, if possible, even more difficult.

Past another waterfall is a chest set against the wall under a patch of glowing mushrooms. Inside, to her delight, is another scroll, with the same markings as the first one. She tucks it into her pack, certain that she will need it at some point during the rest of this godforsaken journey.

She follows the path to the right, which slopes downward gently at first and then more steeply. It turns sharply to the left and then opens out into a huge pit, a thin dirt path spanning the gap and a single draugr pacing back and forth across it. A quick shot to the back of the neck takes this draugr down. Ahnjord is careful to retrieve her arrow this time.

As she stands on the dirt bridge she first looks up, at the pale moonlight and drifting snow that come down from the opening at the top, and then down, to the crashing base of the waterfall behind her and the skeletons of the unfortunate victims of a fall. She shivers and moves on.

The path she follows slopes back up, the dirt of the cave giving way to the cracked stone of the tomb, the warm light of a coal basin glowing ahead of her. Past a broken table and several pots she finds a large hall, three stone archways serving as its entrance. The middle archway is filled with tough vines, and she peers through these at the great wood and iron door ahead of her. That door must go farther in, she thinks, surely to the final chamber of the barrow.

As she moves to head to the door, a growl and a shadow thrown up against the wall warns her of another draugr. She drops into a crouch, drawing her bow, and notches an arrow. When she has a clear sightline on the draugr she lets it fly, delivering a shot right to its neck. It whirls around, staggering, and catches sight of her almost immediately. She drops her bow and draws her axe, meeting its downswing as it charges her with the handle of her weapon. She throws it back and then chops off one of its legs so that it falls, its half-dead face registering no emotion as she slams her axe down and chops off its head.

She frowns as she pulls the axe from the stump of its neck; she has splintered the arrow lodged in its neck and can no longer use it. She retrieves her bow with a sigh and heads through the door.

On the other side is a large decorative basin filled with burning coals that lights up the room and the path beyond. As she heads down the path she can hear the sound of swinging blades, and she sighs. More crawling on the ground.

The path slopes down and then back up again, the floor littered with pots and rolls of rotting cloth. As she comes to the blades she can see a large room on the other side, most of which is obscured by the narrow hallway the blades swing through. She can, however, see another puddle of oil accompanied by ceramic lanterns hanging above, a ramp made of logs tied together, what looks like the edge of a coffin to the immediate left of the axe passageway, and a bridge that spans above the whole of it.

She crawls through the passageway, finding the chain to stop the blades to her right as she comes out, and barely has time to stand before the lid pops off of a nearby coffin and a draugr climbs out. She charges and buries her axe in its chest, dropping it against the coffin. When she looks up she sees a draugr atop the bridge point an arrow at her. She lets go of her axe and draws her bow in one quick motion, backing away as she looses an arrow and strikes the draugr in the throat, knocking it off the bridge and onto the floor below. A third draugr shuffles down the stairs, and as it approaches she shoots the lantern above the oil, the force of the explosion knocking the draugr aside.

She collects her axe and arrow and then skirts the still-burning flame to climb the stairs. Around the upper path, over the arched bridge, and through a short, twisting tunnel, she finds herself faced with another huge door. She pushes it open to find a long hall filled with carvings all along the walls.

“The Hall of Stories,” she says, repeating the words she heard Arvel say. The hall seems to be safe, no burial notches nor coffins for draugr to hide in, so she walks through the cobwebbed hall without fear. At the end is what appears to be a great stone door with three rings surrounding a keyhole in the center.

It is fairly obvious at least that the claw fits into the keyhole of the door. But where do the rings fit in? Suddenly she has an idea.

She digs through her knapsack, pulling out Arvel’s journal and flipping through the pages. Most are simply day to day complaints about his fellows or accounts of what loot he plundered, but the last entry seems to be just what she is looking for.

“My fingers are trembling,” she reads aloud in a whisper, her finger following the words on the page. Reading is not her strong suit. “The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it, the power of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favorite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow. Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that ‘when you have the golden claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands.’”

She pulls the golden claw out of her pack and looks at it. On the palm of the claw are three symbols just like the ones on the door. Bear, moth, owl. She looks up to the door and touches one of the rings carefully. Moth, owl, bear.

With gentle fingers she turns the outermost ring until it is facing the correct way, the stone groaning and crunching as it moves for the first time in what may be centuries. She aligns the middle and center rings as well, then holds the claw out in front of her. Bear, moth, owl. She imagines the punishment for getting this riddle wrong is the same as the bandit suffered for missing snake, snake, fish. She has no desire to die, but what else can she do but test her theory?

She slides the claw into the keyhole and presses back, turning it carefully. When the rings begin to turn on their own she pulls it out and backs away, looking around. The rings all alighn - owl, owl, owl - and then with a great grinding and moaning of moving stone the door sinks into the ground.

Through the door, up a flight of uneven stairs, and into another huge natural cave. This is the end of her quest, she can feel it. In this room ahead is the secret of Bleak Falls Barrow.

A flock of bats flies down over her head as she heads in, their wings fluttering as they whirl around behind her and fly back over, up into the misty expanse of the cave ahead. As she crosses a stone bridge spanning a stream in the middle of the room, she sees up ahead a huge stone wall sitting atop a platform. As she gets closer, she can see that the wall is covered in carvings, some that seem to shimmer and glow. She stops just in front of it, peering at the word - for she is sure it is a word - that glows the brightest. She feels suddenly as though a gust of wind is blowing through her and a word rings in her ears. Fus. She does not know what it means or why she thinks of it, but it calls to some strange part of her and makes her bones ache.

She has very little time to react to this strange event as suddenly behind her she hears the sound of a coffin lid popping open. She whirls around to see a draugr climbing out of a coffin. She nearly drops her bag in her rush to dig through it, whipping out the scroll she found and then throwing a hand out. The ball of fire hits the draugr in the chest, knocking it back into the coffin as the scroll crumbles in her hand. It scrambles for a moment and then regains its footing, raising its axe and running towards her.

She raises her own axe and meets it head on, swinging her weapon over her head only to be met by the handle of its axe. It throws her back, staggering her, and then it leans forward and opens its mouth.

“Fus… Ro Dah!” it shouts, and a force pushes her back, knocking her into the wall. She manages to keep ahold of her axe, but only just barely. The draugr advances as she stumbles to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. Whatever it did to her with its strange shout, it has left her head reeling. She just barely manages to throw up her axe to block its downswing, the tip of its blade clunking as it hits her helmet. A wave of cold rushes through her and she shudders as frost crackles on the edges of her helm.

She kicks a foot out, catching the draugr in the shin and knocking it down to one knee. She then slams her axe down with all of her strength, hitting the draugr in the shoulder, and it collapses to the side, dropping its weapon. She backs away, ready to continue the fight if need be, but the draugr does not rise. After a moment she sheathes her weapon.

When she has caught her breath she reaches out to touch the blade of the draugr’s axe. It crackles with magic and then a bolt of cold shoots up her arm. She snatches her finger away and sticks it in her mouth, sucking on it to restore its warmth. The weapon is definitely enchanted, which means it is worth a fair bit of money. She straps it onto her back next to her own axe and then walks up to the platform that contains the coffin and a large chest.

In the chest are several gems and some enchanted armor, which Ahnjord slips into her impossibly large pack. She has turned to leave when she sees out of the corner of her eye something in the bottom of the coffin. She returns to it, and with trembling fingers holds up the large stone in the shape of a pentagon. On it is printed what appears to be a map, with points marked all over the surface. After a moment’s hesitation she decides to keep it. Something tells her this strange stone is important.

Up the stairs she goes and into a cave that appears to be a dead end until she finds a lever and pulls it, revealing a hidden stone door. The tunnel on the other side twists and turns and then opens out into a small overhang above a widening in the cave. There is a chest and what appears to be a small altar, and after looting the chest she leaves a few coins as an offering. Whatever god or goddess got her through this hellhole of a dungeon has her eternal thanks.

She can smell fresh air coming from an opening before her, and she rushes through to find herself atop a cliff. Her excitement at finally emerging from the dungeon drains away as she looks out over the craggy drop in front of her. How the hell is she supposed to get down?


End file.
